


A Decided Lack of Resolution

by CypressSunn



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Just a lot of smut with zero preamble, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Rough Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Some low key hate sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: Between forgiveness and torture, this is the preferable option by far.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: Holly Poly 2020





	A Decided Lack of Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



_ “Take me. Take this. My wasted life and all  
its bliss—the sea of your waking body  
dawning with its warm grip on night’s wrist.  
Your lips once curled into me.”  
_ _ — Ruben Quesada _

Joe is beginning to feel a little conspired against. He figures as much when he bangs his head back against the headboard and his lap pitches forward to get his cock further into that tight heat. His jeans are caught around his ankles and his shirt is still slung around his neck and on either side of the bed are his new archenemies — Nile and Nicolò — because they cannot be trusted, not ever, ever again when he is mostly very sure they are responsible for _this—_

Booker rears back just enough to breathe and Joe catches sight of that glazed over expression before he ducks back down and sucks, full-throated and raw. Whatever begrudging paranoia Joe held out on flees his grasp, because all he can hold are the too-long strands of Booker’s hair and do his absolute damndest not to batter the throat on him.

“ _Calmati, mio amore_ …” Nicky soothes with a hand on the wing of his hip and the other on his clavicle. “Take it easy. Nice and slow…” to which Joe furrows his sweat-beaded brow. The low, churning ache of guiding that mouth in slow, slow passes over the length of him is almost as good as the hot friction of fucking his face—

“I don’t know, Nick,” Nile whispers. “I think Book can take it…”

Damn the both of them and their sly little approximation of an angel and devil on his shoulder. He’s not sure who to listen to, both feeling so right while his white knuckle grip tightens. Booker hears them too, Nile especially, somehow, because Joe believes it’s her voice that makes Booker shake and shiver around him so deliciously. And while Booker always gets like this, his ears open and searching for command, Joe is pretty damn convinced that Nile has him wrapped around her little finger even out of bed when he’s not a keening, writing mess with a need to please.

How did they get here? asks a quiet, rebelling part of his brain. Was it the dinner Nicky cooked and Nile forced them each to their own place settings? Booker had sat opposite Joe, Nile and Nicky a barrier between them. How many glances had the pair of them shared while Joe leered at Booker and the Frenchman pretended not to notice? Nicky poured that red, ripe Grenache wine that Joe liked with the slow roasted lamb shoulder and it melted together with the succulent, fat-rendered shank. His thoughts had gotten thick and heavy from the lips of every tipping bottle. It could no longer escape his notice that Nile held Booker’s hand tight under the tablecloth or that everyone seated was waiting for the first shot to be fired. And why was the onus on Joe to make the first move? To make Booker feel better or worse? It wasn’t Joe who took all the love between them and shattered it. It wasn’t Joe who left Booker reeling and grieving, guilt gnawing at his mind, what had he missed, what was needed of him that he had not provided his friend, his brother, his lover—

No… Joe thinks, groaning again. He bucks and Booker swallows deep until Joe can feel his stubble against his skin. This. Between forgiveness and torture, this is the preferable option by far. Making Booker feel hopelessly used up and entirely at Joe’s disposal. No matter that it wouldn’t solve a damned thing. Because he deserves it for all he’s done. And Joe has every right to demand it of him. To take it from him. To break him for it.

With his thighs sprawled wider and his eyes closed, Joe is less and less aware of Nicky and Nile. He thinks he can feel his love close, his hands skimming over the stretch of muscles in his neck, down his back. It was most likely him who tugged his pants down the rest of the way by his waistband, chucking it in with the rest on the floor. With Nicky’s coat and Nile’s chemise and Booker’s everything. By the telltale sounds of his husband’s breathing, Nicky must have his own cock in hand, with that lazy, loose grip he preferred. Last he saw of Nile, all her attention was on Booker and the spread of his mouth while Joe fucked in and out of him. Not that he could tell anymore. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and taut while he moved and choked around Joe. It was probably for the best. He was so close to coming undone.

Joe snaps his hips and Booker’s gasping goes ragged and harsh. Joe hisses, the need and motion guiding him going messy and careless. He can’t care if Booker needs to breathe if he feels like _this_. Because he needed this. He was owed this. Had been missing this more than he could put into words.

Dark hands find Joe’s waist. Long, pale fingers ring themselves through Booker’s hair. Under the pressure of her touch, the steady hold of Nicolò’s control, they pace Joe’s pistoning hips down the curve of Booker’s throat. Joe can’t decide if he loves it or hates it. The way he dives deeper into their well-laid trap, the most willing prey clutching onto the illusion of control.

“Just let me…” he growls. Begs. Pleads. He flushes over with heat, a tinge mortified and verging on displeasure. It’s beneath him that he should have to entreat his anyone for this. That it should be this hard to convince anyone that it’s what Booker needs. The chance to be taken down, piece by piece. To be absolutely wrecked under the hand he had strayed from. To be reminded without question of what Sébastien had clearly forgotten. That he belonged to them. That he belonged to Yusuf.

But Nicky shakes his head. Perhaps because for all the control Joe wishes to rein over Booker, it’s nothing compared to the steely self-mastery Nicolò possessed. Or perhaps it’s merely because Joe loves a sadist who knows his millennium testing stamina can take it. Because he knows how Joe’s mouth says one thing but his body betrays him again and again.

“There will be a time to break him, my love. But not tonight.” Nicky eases Booker’s face down over Joe again. Slow, dragging heat. Barely needing to breathe. Always a fraction of an inch from gagging. “We are still reacquainting ourselves, are we not? And it is only Nile’s first time with us, after all…”

Ever the wildcard, Nile purrs, “Oh by all means. Don’t go easy on him on _my_ account.” And that’s her hand roving down his body, her manicure scratching down his chest. Her fingers that reach further until she finds where they are joined. She coaxes Booker faster along the length of him. He capitulates of course, moaning the whole way down, bobbing under her ministrations. The vibrations make Joe’s spine feel liquid and primal. Something has to give. Something soon.

“What do you think, Joe?” Nile is breathless. Determined. Intrigued. “Should we ask Seb what he wants? Just this once?”

And Joe could kiss her. Does kiss her before his own hand covers hers on Booker’s scalp and the other on Nicky’s where it lay at his bared throat. He tilts Booker off of him. Thumbs his abused bottom lip, all slick and wet. He slinks back, straightening enough to fill his lungs but still close enough that Joe can feel the heated gasps on his cock. A maddeningly slow moment passes where all Booker does is inhale and inhale. Then at last, he says all Joe needs to hear: “I want it.”

“Then get up here,” Joe commands. The last vestige of restraint slipping away from him. “Hands on the headboard.”

Booker obeys because he knows what’s good for him. Joe rubs a line down Booker’s back, settling at the base of his ass. Lube appears in his hand. Nicky fetched it somewhere outside of Joe’s world view that’s zeroed-in on Booker entirely. He can feel Nile’s thrilled exhilaration from behind him, retreating to urge them on, to allow them space. Nicky chuckling, poised, ready to luxuriate the show. He did love to see Joe in his element.

Joe works Booker open the way he had a thousand times before. Keeps him pressed upright, taut beneath him. He bites the tendon lining Booker’s neck. Savors the scent he finds there; the musk cologne, scent of leather, and ever present whiskey. Booker begs weakly for more. That was always the thing about him, the most irresistible way he takes it so beautifully. Writing and desperate, sense wrung out of him bit by bit.

“You know this was a set-up,” Booker gasps in his hoarse, voice low so that only Joe can hear. “They planned it. The dinner, the hotel… All of it just to get us here… and we fell for it…”

“Maybe so,” he concedes, lining their bodies together. He sinks in to the hilt, moving in tandem with his fingers from his clean hand filling Booker’s mouth. Two knuckles deep and stifling the roar racking through him. “But I’ve walked into _far worse_ traps as of late.”

*

The afterglow is fraught, but one wouldn’t be able to tell by Nicky and Nile alone. Nicky moves to and fro, packing away the remnants of dinner. Nile flitters along behind him, helping repair the minor damage they wrought on the path to the bed. They’ve left Booker and Joe to their own devices on the bedspread. They haven’t said much or anything at all. Nothing passes between them save for shallow, sated breaths. Joe debates feigning sleep; figures it will be easier than what is to come next.

But Booker is wholly aware of him. Knows it’s his turn to bite the bullet. “I’m trying to remember when was the last time we did that?”

“Eh… the Great Wars? I think?”

Pondering it over, Booker nods. “I think that sounds about right.”

But Joe blanches, the reality of the timeline hitting him all at once as he jolts up in bed. That cannot possibly be correct. “Sébastien, please tell me you’ve _at least_ sucked another dick in the last seventy years.”

The silence that follows is deafening. With a sheepish look, he shakes his head.

“Jesus, Book, no wonder you can’t fucking cope.” Joe groans, beleaguered. “How about the next time you start feeling depressed, you let me know so I can put you on your knees?”

Booker makes no real affirmations on the offer, but he does chuckle and roll onto his side. Joe’s already stretched out, his arms folded behind his head. He doesn’t want to admit if he feels better or worse. Knows that Booker is not ready to ask or to grovel for forgiveness. So they track the beguiling motion across the room, where Nicky and Nile stand with their duplicitous heads pressed together.

Joe can't help but wonder, “When exactly did that start?”

“Them?” Booker pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think they’ve been plotting for a while. At least since I got back from France—”

“No, I meant _you and her_ ,” Joe wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “When did that happen? And don’t even try denying it.”

“Oh, she and I…” Booker trials off, searching. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue. She just… came out of nowhere.”

“She really did, didn’t she?” Joe agrees. It was always that sudden, he remembers. From the first cut of a Frankish long sword to the first bone crunching blow that landed from a frightened, furious Frenchman trying to make his way home. It was always the unexpected ways they had forgotten they could feel; the newness of love and grief and rage and all the jagged little mistakes that broke up the monotony of eternity. How it kept them close as that accursed destiny his heart so dearly believed in. Still over a ways, the man in question is picking through the hotel minibar and helping Nile run up their checkout bill. He must feel Joe’s eyes on him when casts his gaze over Nile’s shoulder for a moment. Nicky gives away nothing but smiles intently. Quiet and certain and beautiful as ever and Joe knows he never stood a chance. Not really.

He turns back to Booker. “Suppose it’s too late for either of us to be free of them. But you know we have to get them back for this, right?”

“I think working together to teach them a lesson is just playing further into their hands.”

Joe can see the logic. He would hate to give either of them the satisfaction. He shakes his head anyway. “That as it may, they’re paying for this. You in?”

A quirk at the corner of Sébastien’s lips feels familiar. Feels good. “How about the Crimea tag team, like back in ‘55?”

Joe grins. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

_**fin.** _


End file.
